From the Archives - Bits & Bobs Volume XXXI

Introduction

This is the thirty-first installment in the “From the Archives – Bits & Bobs” series. Volume I of the series is here, Volume II is here, Volume III is here, Volume IV is here, Volume V is here, Volume VI is here, Volume VII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume IX is here, Volume X is here, Volume XI is here, Volume XII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume XIV is here, Volume XV is here, Volume XVI is here, Volume XVII is here, Volume XVIII is here, Volume XIX is here, Volume XX is here, Volume XXI is here, Volume XXII is here, Volume XXIII is here, Volume XXIV is here, Volume XXV is here, Volume XXVI is here, Volume XXVII is here, Volume XXVIII is here, Volume XXIX is here, and Volume XXX is here.

If you’re new to the Bits & Bobs series, it’s really not that complicated: they’re snippets of past correspondence that I think could amuse any audience. Back in the olden days—before blogs, doomscrolling, podcasts, streaming, Youtube, and TikTok—certain oddballs, such as myself, actually took the time to correspond with friends and family. As you yourself may recall, people used to write letters, on paper, and send them through the mail. And originally emails were more like letters and were widely exchanged among humans, before email became mostly useless (e.g., solicitations from a retailer you bought something from five years ago). And get this: people used to actually read emails, or at least that’s what I told myself when I worked pretty hard at writing them. Now my old correspondence has a second chance at an audience, as I string old snippets together into these Bits & Bobs posts. The different volumes are varied in time and place and can be read randomly, rapidly, repeatedly, reluctantly, resentfully, resignedly, reverently, ruefully, and/or religiously.

Today’s Bits & Bobs are in chronological order, and I specify where I was living when I wrote them. You can try to guess whom I wrote them to (but honestly, good luck with that). And as you will gather from the dates, these were typed, printed, and mailed.

March 8, 1990 – Santa Barbara

[My brother] Geoff came down and visited last weekend to watch the races our UCSB cycling team hosted. A couple of years ago, some racers complained that our criterium course was boring. Well, we showed them! This year we set up a course on campus with eleven corners, including a hairpin. Traditionally, not my kind of course. (Aren’t you glad I have health insurance? I’m not—the premiums just went up to $60 per month!) It seems like maybe all the weight training I did over the winter came in handy: the race come down to a field sprint and I took fourth. Somehow the team had conjured up a speed radar with a giant display that was positioned at the finish line, and we broke 40 mph in the final sprint! I’ll confess I was extra motivated trying to impress this girl who came to watch me, but it turns out she got bored and left before the finish, unbeknownst to me. Oh well, at least I got a good race out of it, and Geoff was stoked for me. I have no idea how else to try to impress that girl … I’m kind of out of bullets now.

October 1, 1990 - Oakland

The main reason I’m writing you is that I have a puzzle which I think you may be able to help figure out. Suppose that for dinner I make six servings of mashed pota­toes (hypothetically speaking of course; I would never eat such a boring meal in actual life, at least not without also making a huge burrito . . . okay, we’re getting less hypothetical here) and in making these six servings I use two cups of water, a cup of milk, and two cups of potato flakes (which, through a miracle of science, turn out better than real potatoes, just like Cool Ranch Doritos taste better than anything that actually exists in nature). The question is, how can my six servings only be 1/2‑cup each, like the box says? I mean, I should have five cups of potatoes, which would be ten 1/2‑cup servings. Where do the extra two cups go? Steam? Heat? It would have to make five cups. Hell, it looked like five cups, and it’s sitting in my stomach like five cups (and a burrito).

Anyway, I thought you might know the answer. But don’t feel like you have to rush a response back to me or anything; I mean, you mentioned how self-conscious writing makes you feel, since you’re worried about your spelling and punctua­tion. So (whoops, this box of potatoes just leaked flakes all over my lap) if I get too accurate with my grammar, etc. in this letter, will you get stressed out and decide writing is too much hassle? I don’t want that to happen, so I is gonna start scrweing up my spelings and grammers so if and you will deside that mabey its all cool and I’m perty stuppid and not so dangrous to rite to at alll. Maybe that won’t be convincing since this is still a typed letter instead of casually scrawled like yours, but obviously there’s plenty of really dull typed stuff out there that wouldn’t intimidate anybody and I should try that mode. In fact, maybe I should adopt a scientific writing style:

Certainly it is noteworthy that the dust, lint, and flakes of dehyd­rated potatoes in this Oakland resident’s apartment tend to gather around the exterior surface of his high‑fidelity stereophonic audio speakers. This is doubtless due to the static charge effected by the main B‑type DryWatt FlipFlop magnets in the speakers, combined with the relatively dry air of the Oakland region. The tendency of the speakers to simultaneously repel said dust and lint as a result of the air displacement, effected by the vibrating speaker cones, is also notable. The point at which the magnitude of the sound (adjusted by the resident by means of the volume control knob found on his receiver) repels the dust and lint to an area beyond which the static electricity will attract it is left as an exercise for the undoubtedly intelligent science enthusiast reading this article.

Is that boring enough for you? It’s still risky—my dad and one or two of my brothers would probably be fascinated by that whole paragraph. Actually, my dad would probably be really disappointed in me due to some inaccuracy.

I have to say, your letter was pretty confusing. What are Little Debbies? And what’s Greasy Tony’s? I can’t believe there’s an all-u-can eat joint I don’t know about. And are Spener and Spencer the same guy, and am I supposed to know who this guy/these guys is/are? Maybe I met him/them at Nationals and forgot, since I tend to do that. When I was in Boulder this summer on my way to Wyoming for a bike race, I was at a restaurant and a whole group of people called me over, and I didn’t recognize a single one of them. They were talking to me and everything, using my name even, and all I could do is play along and think, “Who the hell are these people? I’ve never seen then before in my life!” What do you do when that happens?

December 1, 1990 – Oakland

One of my English professors, for my Chicano Literature class, decided to be a dick and make our big paper—80% of our grade—due on the Monday after Thanksgiving. I had planned to spend the long weekend writing it, but somehow managed to let my brother Geoff talk me into driving to Boulder for Thanksgiving instead. The worst part is, it took him a good while to convince me, so by the time I embarked on the trip (starting with a Greyhound bus to his place in San Luis Obispo) I not only hadn’t made good headway on the paper, but hadn’t even figured out my topic and thus hadn’t checked out the books I’d need. I figured I would have to wait until I got to Boulder and borrow my brother Bryan’s University of Colorado library card; check out the books there; and write the paper on the Friday before driving back home. So, Friday afternoon, I go to the CU library with my friend P— (a student there) and wander through the rows and pull out every book I can find. Then I read the table of contents of each book to figure out a good topic to write my paper on. Suddenly, there it is, a shimmering topic shining down on me from above: the social growth of the Chicana (Chicano female). I found like ten good books.

So I study those a while, until this library staffer comes and says the library’s closing early, what with the holiday and all. So I go to check out my books and the dude at the circulation desk tells me, “Sorry, it’s after 5:00. I can’t check anything out to you. Regulations.” I tell him how bad I need the books (though I can’t mention I’m leaving to go back to Berkeley the next day since I’m supposedly this card-carrying CU student). He won’t budge so I go back into the depths of the library, which is dark now, and tell my friend P— to go down and wait under this window. Without a word, he understands my situation: my back to the wall, I have no choice but to drop the books down to him.

Unfortunately, in putting my brilliant plan into play I feel less like Sean Connery and more like Peter Sellers. The windows are literally welded shut, with grates over them. I go down to the second floor, stumbling around in the dark, and all the windows have padlocks on them. Colorado Maximum Security Corrective University. So I devise another plan: I’ll make a run for it. So I find an exit, with a red door handle and a huge sign, “EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY! ALARM WILL SOUND!” and a smaller but equally ominous sign beneath it, “Those misusing this exit will be prosecuted.” I have no idea where the exit will dump me, and what direction I’ll have to run in. Plus, I’ve got a duffel bag with 10 hardback books and a bunch of other crap in it, and I’m not much of a runner. But on the plus side, I’ve seen the guy who’s patrolling the library and he’s a big fat guy with only one arm. Seriously. So I take a deep breath and push through the door.

I’ve always wondered what those alarms sound like—and I’m still wondering because nothing happened. For a second I was really stoked because I thought I was home free. Then I realized I was still indoors, in some storage room or something. I stumble around in there but it’s seriously pitch black and I can’t find an exit. So I go back into the stacks and look for another exit, really stressed out by now, and then I make a wrong turn and the one-armed man sees me. He’s even less sympathetic than the circulation desk guy, and makes me put all my books on this little cart and leave. And that’s why before I left for California on Saturday, I had to go back to the library and check all those books out, and bring them with me to research and write my paper on Sunday, after the trip.

Of course we managed to get on the road late. Right around Utah, I figured I’d done my share of the driving, and turned the wheel over to my brother’s roommate, J—. (Geoff doesn’t have his driver’s license.) I got maybe half an hour of sleep before J—woke me up and said, “Dude, you gotta keep me awake. I keep hallucinating trees on the road.” I guess I can understand that, since he hasn’t slept in a while, and it’s dark out, but he goes on to say, “They’re sage trees, and they’re talking to me. Talking trees, I’m serious. You know what they keep saying?” I guess I nod or mumble “uh-huh” or something, because he says, “You do know? What did they tell me, then?” I play along: “They said that sleep is a myth, and that you don’t really need sleep, just lots and lots of coffee.” So we keep talking, and after a while I’m only half awake. Suddenly J— shakes me real good and says, “What did you just tell me?” I confess that I can’t remember. He says I was talking about a green hotel where I was writing Christmas cards, and this huge doorman with a big zipper who kept harassing me. I remember the part about the green hotel, because in Las Vegas we’d passed this creepy looking Holiday Inn, painted white but bathed in green floodlights (neither of us could figure out why). Finally J—’s driving shift was over, by which point Geoff was awake and able to help keep me awake for the final leg.

I finally got home at like 11:00 p.m. on Sunday and started my English paper at about 11:30 p.m., giving me about twelve hours. I was definitely hurting, this being basically my second all-nighter in a row. On a hunch, I phoned my friend H—, who’s in my class. She picked right up. “Working on your paper?” I asked. “Of course!” she laughed, “I just got started!”

During the night as I pounded out the paper I hallucinated about people in the hallway outside my apartment; talked to them a bit before realizing they weren’t real; and discovered that coffee, UpTime, and NoDoz are altogether inadequate for postponing sleep. The only thing that could help now was adrenaline. I got that by accidentally falling asleep, and waking up twenty minutes later thinking it was morning already. Once the panic subsided I found I could function again. At about 8:00 on Monday morning I remembered I had a paper in the works for my 9:00 Rhetoric class; finished it; went to class; and ended up falling asleep during my small group discussion. Evidently I was talking in my sleep, because I awoke to this girl laughing her ass off. Then I headed home and finished the big paper. It was due at noon, and I finished it at 12:35 and brought it to class. Nobody was there: class had been cancelled. I managed to track down the professor and he took the paper. Whew.

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From the Archives - The Great TA Smackdown

Introduction

When somebody disses me, I usually retaliate. I’m not talking about revenge, which attempts to fix one wrong with another, but about pursuing justice in a responsible, productive fashion. I had a highly satisfactory come-to-Jesus with a dickwad grad student Teaching Assistant back in ‘92. Back then, we didn’t have surveillance cameras everywhere, or bystanders with smartphones capturing video of every single human activity, so there’s no footage of the heated meeting this TA and I had in his office—which is a shame. This guy was totally outgunned. It was like he brought a toothpick to a knife fight, and I had a chainsaw. What I mean is, I came prepared.

The gist of my grievance was that I’d put extra work into my paper, which he quite literally ignored. See, in addition to analyzing Ernest Hemingway’s literary technique of “omission,” I wrote a short story of my own showcasing the technique. The TA couldn’t be bothered to read the story, and even though the analytical part of my paper stood on its own (focusing on Hemingway’s work, not on my story), the TA seemed to want to punish me for my originality by judging my paper very harshly. (You can read the story itself here, along with a brief explanation of the “omission” literary technique.)

So, how did I prepare for this confrontation? I imagined what I would write to this arrogant bastard if I were denied the chance to meet with him. This worked out very well; knowing he’d never see this written testimony meant I could blow off a little steam in the process. By the time I finished writing out my talking points, I’d dealt so harshly with this guy I almost felt sorry for him. I knew, going in to the meeting, that he’d be caught completely off guard, being a lazy and hapless little douchebag with an oddly underdeveloped intellect, and I wasn’t wrong. Boy I wish you could have seen me walk him through his sad menagerie of lameness. Perhaps reading this essay will help you imagine the stricken look on his face. (No, I didn’t terrorize him or anything ... I was just very, very firm. Perhaps I cut a more menacing figure than I would today; after all, I was a young college kid, full of the bluster and bravado of that species, and my pugnacious attitude hadn’t yet been sanded smooth by experience, perspective, and a fully formed prefrontal cortex.)

(Note: this wasn’t actually a TA per se, but a reader. The difference is that a reader only grades papers and isn’t burdened with providing any instruction sessions.)

March 31, 1992: To the TA who gave me a B-minus

In analyzing your text, which might as well be called “Notes to a lowly undergraduate on his paper,” I will spoon‑feed you in the typical college “thesis statement” style you evidently prefer. My thesis is: YOU SUCK. I will support this assertion by citing directly from your text.

You start by saying, “I appreciate weariness at having to write another critical paper . . .” (p. 1). This statement demonstrates that you have only skimmed over my paper. A closer reader would have noticed that I’d written, “I’m as weary of writing standard papers as I expect you are of reading them” (analysis, p. 9). I was trying to spare us both, and your statement of appreciation is obviously disingenuous.

The second part of your first sentence reads, “you should have consulted with a reader before deviating so far from that standard” (p. 1). The automatic question is, “What standard?” There is no antecedent to your use of “that.” Is there some standard you assume we are both operating from? In an attempt to discern what “standard” you are requiring of me, I have reread the three-page description of the assignment from the professor, and refer you to the following “Subject Matter Requirements and Suggestions”:

• “You may write on a topic you invent” (handout, p. 1). This is exactly what I did.
• “Your paper must have a thesis” (handout, p. 2). Mine does. I stated it on the first page of the analysis, and developed it in the first paragraph. You should have been able to find it because I preceded it immediately with, “despite my [two-part illustrative and analytical] approach, this paper has a thesis:” (note that my thesis statement directly followed the colon). I certainly didn’t deviate from this standard.
• “Originality of thought is crucial to genuine learning” (handout, p. 2). Careful examination of my text (which, incidentally, includes actually reading it) will show that I embraced this requirement by writing a two‑part paper in order to offer true originality while also satisfying the other requirements.

Let us assume that these requirements and suggestions do not allow a two‑part paper: even in the second part of my paper alone, I did, in fact, “analyze the function of a particular stylistic device” (handout, p. 3) in complete adherence to the “Suggested Paper Topics.” That you feel I was “deviating so far from that standard” demonstrates your lack of understanding of even the second half of my project. In other words: YOU SUCK.

Next, you state, “Unfortunately, as we each have over 60 papers to read in a very short time, I was unable to read your story, so I must restrict my evaluation to your analysis of Hemingway” (p. 1). The ineffectiveness of this statement is remarkable. Consider: an undergraduate, busy with a college workload of his own, has committed far more time than required in order to make a more powerful paper, but his extra effort is completely ignored—and yet he is invited to feel sympathy for the one who has blown him off. The implicit suggestion here is that your time is worth more than mine. You are contemptuously implying here that I’m just a bored schmuck with too much time on his hands. This ties in neatly with my thesis: YOU SUCK.

In the next paragraph, you acknowledge that my examples are “representative” but conclude, “the analysis seems superficial” (p. 1). Look, it’s either superficial or it’s not—there’s no “seems.” Moreover, it’s actually your skimming of my analysis that’s superficial. You offer three “probing questions” which, you suggest, I should have addressed in my essay. Number one: “What is the point of forcing the reader into this sort of relationship with the omitted language?” (p. 1). I refer you to my opening paragraph: “Omission helps to develop characters realistically, to avoid sentimentality, and to draw the reader into the story” (analysis, p. 9). Had I not developed this assertion, you could have attacked me for that; instead, you wrongly state that I didn’t even ask the question.

The next “probing question” that you suggest I should have asked is, “Why does Hemingway omit certain kinds of information and not others?” (p. 1). I refer you again to the actual text of my analysis: “While commonly leaving out certain details, Hemingway’s technique of omission also requires adding certain other details to alert the reader that the character is evading his emotions” (analysis, p. 11). The examples I cite in explaining this earned two comments of “good” from you, written in the margin of my paper. How could you have appreciated my response to this “probing question” without noticing that I had addressed the question to begin with? Did you forget what you had read? Maybe under a little grad-student stress? Awwww.

The final “probing question” you claim I failed to ask is, “What are the limitations of omission?” (p. 1). Once again (and I am becoming annoyed at having to do this), I refer you to my text: “The reader can sense Jake’s feelings only because Hemingway has so thoroughly developed Jake as a character. One must consider the extent to which omission [in a short story] would need to be employed differently than in a novel . . . [given] the short story genre’s more limited development of its characters” (analysis, pp. 12‑13). Does this not address the question? Sure, maybe I could have gone on at greater length about this, but can you really claim I never even considered the question? Clearly, your assertion that I did not “ask more probing questions” is shortsighted; rather, you needed to probe my paper more deeply. Or, to put it more succinctly: YOU SUCK.

If you pause to think (just try it, for once!) you may realize that for any student to coincidentally pose, and address, the very “probing questions” you accuse him of failing to think of is a highly unlikely scenario. Could it be that you actually formulated these probing questions based on ideas you got from my paper itself? Might you actually be confusing your own intellectual output for mine? If you like my ideas enough to subconsciously attribute them to yourself, couldn’t you at least give me a better grade than a B-minus?

Amazingly, the final paragraph of your feedback is even worse than the first two. You state, “In short, your analysis, as it stands, could be condensed into a few paragraphs” (p. 1). I have tabulated the paragraphs of my analysis for you:

Introduction/thesis statement                             1 paragraph
Explanation of 2-fold project                             1 paragraph
Definition of “omission”                                    1 paragraph
Example from first Hemingway text                 1 paragraph
Examination of 1st “probing question”             3 paragraphs
Examination of 2nd “probing question”           1 paragraph
Examination of 3rd “probing question”            2 paragraphs
Example from second Hemingway text            1 paragraph
Evaluation of first half of paper                       1 paragraph
__________________
TOTAL                                                             12 paragraphs

Assuming that the two paragraphs devoted to tying the analysis into my story are totally worthless—a false assumption designed to cater to your laziness—we are still left with ten paragraphs. Both the Oxford and Webster’s dictionaries I have consulted define “few” as “not many but more than one.” Given your obvious impatience with quantities of written text, I’m sure you’ll agree that ten paragraphs qualifies as “many.”

Is it possible you’re accusing me of padding my paragraphs with useless text, such that most of my sentences could be removed without losing anything? That would be an absurd accusation indeed, considering that I bothered to write eight extra pages (i.e., the short story) in addition to the standard essay. Those who pad their paragraphs to meet the minimum page requirement don’t then blow past that minimum by eight pages. Moreover, my top ranking in the English major attests to the quality control—ergo, the concision—of my writing.

Your penultimate sentence reads, “From there you could have a started a truly interesting paper” (p. 1). The extraneous “a” in your sentence is not surprising, given your lack of scholastic precision. What is surprising is your brazen suggestion that I have not written an interesting paper. In light of the incredibly poor job you’ve done in evaluating my paper, your snobbery demonstrates my thesis beyond a shadow of a doubt: YOU SUCK.

One more thing. It wouldn’t be right to put forth a thesis of “YOU SUCK” without mounting a rude ad hominem attack. This comes very easily to me in your case; I can simply quote from my lecture notes of March 30:

Let’s have a look at R——, the TA who has incurred my wrath. Sitting up front, he wears a prim cotton pant-and-blouse getup, all black and without a trace of color save the chance lint that, even now, he brushes off vigorously. His hair has all the perfect arrangement of the molded plastic hairdo of Malibu Ken—but R——’s is real hair, artistically blown-dry and spiked, so it looks somewhat like a pruned hedge. His face and forehead are scrubbed shiny, so that he looks a bit like a doll. In short, his appearance suggests the obsessed grooming regimen of a true narcissist.

If you were to point out that an ad hominem attack shouldn’t be delivered in the third person, you’d actually be making sense, perhaps for the first time ever. This brings me to the last sentence of your critique: “Please consult me before your next paper” (p. 1). Acknowledging the limitations of the essay form, I will save my most vicious foul‑mouthed insults, along with a brutal, bare-knuckled beat-down, for your office hours tomorrow.

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From the Archives - Wacko College Rhetoric Paper

Introduction

When I transferred from UC Santa Barbara to UC Berkeley, I somehow didn't have the official “Schedule of Classes” that described exactly what each class was.  In fact, I didn’t know this document existed, and when I filled out the application, I was in the back of a car on some road trip.  So for my first semester at Cal, I chose classes more or less at random, which is how I came to be enrolled in Rhetoric 1A, a class that was an alternative to a bonehead English class I’d tested out of in high school.  As a junior, I was in a classroom with a bunch of freshmen.  (From the standpoint of credits towards graduation, the class was worthless, but I have no regrets—I learned a lot.)

Emboldened by the notion that I couldn’t fail, I was highly experimental and unorthodox with my rhetoric papers, jettisoning all the standards and guidelines the professor had laid out.  (He loved this.)  The following stage play was my final paper for the class and represents the culmination of my wacko trajectory.

December 10, 1990 – College rhetoric paper

THE STRUGGLE TO EXPLAIN EXISTENCE

A Play in One Act

————————————————————————

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

CHORUS

NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI, author of “The Qualities of the Prince” (an excerpt from The Prince)

RICHARD DAWKINS, author of The Selfish Gene

CHARLES DARWIN, author of The Origin of Species

JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU, author of “The Origin of Civil Society” (an excerpt from his oeuvre)

An APPARITION, who holds the answer to everything

SCENE: Geneva, Switzerland

————————————————————————

PROLOGUE

Enter CHORUS.

     Four writers, all alike in dignity,

     In fair Geneva, where we hold our talk,

     Speak each at length about reality,

     Explaining what is true and what is not.

     One speaks of man as though he were exempt

     From traits which hinder states, and folly cause.

     Another, once this man’s oration’s spent,

     Agrees with it, ascribing newer laws.

     A third man, till now quiet, takes the floor,

     And harshly gives the second one reproach,

     Until the fourth claims every man before

     Has missed the truth he claims to have approached.

            While each the flaws in others tends to show,

    

            The final truth’s not any man’s to know.

SCENE I

Enter MACHIAVELLI, DAWKINS, DARWIN, and ROUSSEAU.

MACHIAVELLI.  All decorum aside, I have no other object but to begin this discussion with a minimum of wasted time, so I take the liberty of opening our discourse.  Though you may hate me for it, I will not tolerate interruptions.  You will all respect me more, ultimately, if I speak my piece without hearing opposing views, for such action would imply hesitation in expounding my ideas, for which you would despise me. 

DAWKINS.  I think I can speak for Darwin in saying your behavior does not suit this open forum environment, so the gene dictating your one-sidedness will not be perpetuated in your children.

DARWIN.  Dawkins, your application of my views could only be considered ridiculous.  The treatment of human behavior such as formal debate is not to be found in my abstract, for I have not accumulated sufficient documentation to assert any such thing.

MACHIAVELLI.  This quibbling does not befit my command of this discussion, and while I desire to appear merciful, I warn you that cruelty on my part may soon be necessary to restore order to this discussion if you continue in your dissent.

ROUSSEAU.  As long as we are forced to obey you, you are unjustified in violating our liberty as free men.  Hence you really ought to—

MACHIAVELLI.  Silence! As I said in my book, “There is such a gap between how one lives and how one ought to live that anyone who abandons what is done for what ought to be done learns his ruin rather than his preservation” (p.  40).  And preservation is exactly what I intend to discuss now, without further interruption.  My ideas actually relate to Darwin’s, for I believe that one’s success is dependent largely on how well he knows his surroundings.  In my book I explain how in doing this, “One learns to know one’s own country and can better understand how to defend it” (p.  38‑9).  This adaptation is a prince’s most important quality, just as Darwin’s idea of natural selection is based on how well any species can adapt to its environment.  Perhaps even more applicable is Darwin’s notion that the behavior of organisms is entirely that which will perpetuate its numbers, and that no organism would ever act in such a way as to solely benefit another.  This would be like generosity, which as I have said in my book, is unwise, for it requires a prince to “burden the people with excessive taxes .  .  .  and becoming impoverished, he will not be much esteemed by anyone” (p.  41).  Hence what is effective in nature is effective in politics—namely, whatever works, regardless of “moral” considerations which, in practice, are their own undoing.  Darwin, although you shake your head, I will be consistent by continuing to use your book to justify my controversial views; and Rousseau, I will disregard your grumbling, for a prince must often accept being despised.  Since you, Dawkins, look as though you agree with my ideas, I will allow you to speak now. 

DAWKINS.  I do agree with you, Machiavelli, because what you are really driving at is what I cite in my book: what Maynard Smith calls “an evolutionarily stable strategy.” This I define as “a strategy which, if most members of a population adopt it, cannot be bettered by an alternative strategy” (p.  74).  I demonstrate this idea by illustrating that if two types of fighting strategies—those of Hawk and Dove—exist, the number of adopters of each strategy depends on what ultimately becomes the most stable balance.  In this model, hawks always attack and doves always retreat.  I see that Darwin is cringing over there; I should acknowledge that doves are in real life aggressive birds, but not in my model.  The strategy of hawks will gain popularity only as long as there are enough doves to attack; once hawks must attack other hawks, injury and fatality result, so that the doves who escape injury will grow in numbers.  Eventually a balance is reached between the two.  Machiavelli, this concurs with your ideas because the strategy depends entirely on what will work, instead of which strategy is morally correct. 

ROUSSEAU grumbles, gnashes his teeth.

DAWKINS.  But before anybody accosts me, I should make some careful stipulations.  First, the survival of a kingdom is not really the underlying goal here; all organisms are actually only “survival machines” for genes.  Genes are the real life force, whose purpose is to replicate themselves from here to eternity.  These genes “swarm in huge colonies, safe inside gigantic lumbering robots” and manipulate the world “by remote control” (p.  21).  Thus any organism, man included, acts only to perpetuate the selfish gene controlling it, which accounts for altruism within a family, since family members carry the same gene.  Any other survival machine, be it of the same or another species, is expendable.  Animals only refrain from killing off members of their own species because they have common rivals which would benefit from this.  In Machiavelli’s kingdom, a prince will seek to perpetuate his kingdom because his offspring will inherit it, and the chance for survival of this offspring—and hence the common gene—will be greater if his assets are great.

ROUSSEAU.  This is all very well, but can you really refute that man, by creating a social pact in which he willfully surrenders certain freedoms, has separated himself from other species?

DAWKINS.  Actually, man is unique because he has culture, which is just like genetic transmission in that it evolves, and outlives the organism—in this case, man alone—who is its survival machine.  Culture, which encompasses literature, religion, and even fashion, replicates itself just like genes do; I call it a meme.  Memes compete just like genes, but for “radio and television time, billboard space, newspaper column-inches, and library shelf-space” (p.  212). 

DARWIN drops the flower he had been studying, turns pale.

DAWKINS.  Man, through his memes, can even transcend his genes; for example, while a “gene for celibacy is doomed to failure in the gene pool,” it “can be successful in the meme pool” (p.  213).  As I brilliantly concluded in my book, “We have the power to turn against our creators.  We, alone on earth, can rebel against the tyranny of the selfish replicators” (p.  215).

DARWIN.  Dawkins, I believe that sufficient documentation in my favor has now been established to demonstrate that you possess stupidity, the selection of I cannot account for.  My book represents a thoroughness and attention to accuracy; for as I state in the introduction, “No one can feel more sensible than I do of the necessity of hereafter publishing in detail all the facts, with references, on which my conclusions have been grounded” (p.  66).  Your book, on the other hand, comes completely from your own imagination, yet attempts to draw authority from my painstaking work in order to justify its claims.  The beginning of your book is marked by strict adherence, even reverence, for my work; on page one, you state, “It was Darwin who first put together a coherent and tenable account of why we exist.” The reader is hence led to believe that you are a follower of mine and that my ideas back yours.  I find it preposterous that you ultimately conclude that “Darwinism is too big a theory to be confined to the narrow context of the gene.  The gene will enter my thesis as an analogy, nothing more” (p.  205).  Here, you both discard my backing and reduce ninety percent of your book to “an analogy.” It can easily be found, I believe, that the final chapter of your book is marked by brazen anthropomorphism which I carefully avoided; hence you have no backing from me of your theories—only the “analogy” you explain in most of your book!

DAWKINS.  Certainly your views on natural selection must, at least, justify my “selfish gene” thesis.

DARWIN.  They do, but only in a very limited sense.  If a certain variation tends to preserve an organism, it will be selected and inherited by that organism’s offspring.  In that regard you seem to understand my ideas.  But to act in a way that consciously perpetuates a gene implies a sense of purpose which is entirely missing in the animal and plant world.  Species simply survive, as I detailed in an entire chapter of my book.  The idea of living with a purpose in mind is anthropomorphic; I very intentionally avoid this, as human considerations of morality and purpose are beyond the realm of scientific study.  Treating your preposterous notions as science leaves your work completely vulnerable to the unfounded, slippery-slope miscomprehensions which reduce your book to a mockery of itself, and to those as irresponsible as yourself, a mockery of me as well.

DAWKINS turns bright red, covers his face with his hands.

DARWIN.  Machiavelli, I believe you will recognize the inconsistent nature of this man’s thinking.  Earlier, he validated your claims by tying them into his work; then, he similarly embraced Rousseau’s ideals which are in direct contrast to yours.  Anything could fit his thesis.

MACHIAVELLI.  Indeed, I would never trust him as a subject, for any man having such malleable beliefs would be prone to conspiracy.  Exterminating such a subject, while necessary and practical, could nonetheless be unpleasant.

ROUSSEAU.  Before you become too smug, gentlemen, I believe your own arguments to be incomplete.  You have successfully described a primitive society in which man, or organisms, follow the law of self-preservation.  But is man really unaccountable for his actions?  Machiavelli, I challenge your totally pragmatic approach, for it is based upon the fallacy that political power is “exercised in the interests of the governed” (Rousseau, p.  57).  Slavery is a perfect example of both this fallacy about power, and of the distinction between man and nature.  Regardless of whether enslaving its own kind is a trait unique to man, the tendency to justify slavery, or anything else, is uniquely human.  Much of my essay is given to refuting erroneous claims about the “right” of slavery.  Animals lack not only the means, but the instinct to make arguments like this one: “Since the victor has a right to kill his defeated enemy, the latter may, if he so wish, ransom his life at the expense of his liberty” (p.  62).  Machiavelli, even if you are logically pragmatic, you obviously recognize the idea of “right” in seeking the greatest good for a ruled people.  And Darwin, your scientific analysis of the behavior of organisms does not address this element of human behavior.  While Dawkins’ argument is obviously flawed, it nonetheless attempts to explain man’s unique behavior.  No more scientific is my argument, yet it is not lacking in a treatment of human behavior.  Machiavelli, you need to recognize the “vast difference between subduing a mob and governing a social group” (p.  64).  And both you and Darwin must admit that man has made “the passage from the state of nature to the civil state” and “substitutes justice for instinct in his behavior, and gives to his actions a moral basis which formerly was lacking” (p.  68).  These social constructs are unique to man; instead of “might making right” or “survival of the fittest,” all men “become equal in the eyes of the law” (p.  72).

DARWIN.  Yes, but I believe adequate factual documentation of your ideas to be lacking in your thesis.

MACHIAVELLI.  How dare you refute my ideas! I will not tolerate your dissent!

DAWKINS.  Wait, if you won’t accept my ideas, and his lack scientific backing, and I myself have supposedly confounded my theories about behavior, then what is the right answer?

SCENE II

Enter APPARITION. 

APPARITION.  You wacky kids.  You all have your ideas, but nobody has found the answer.  Machiavelli, how do you respond to Rousseau’s point about morality?

MACHIAVELLI.  I should kill him.

APPARITION.  That’s not the point of this convention.  Dawkins and Rousseau, how can you give factual verification to your ideas?

ROUSSEAU.  Were I a mathematician, I would construct a proof; were I a scientist, I would conduct experiments.  As a writer, I can only speculate on my own experience, and whatever history can teach.

DAWKINS.  As an avid follower of Rousseau, I refer you to his authority. 

APPARITION.  Darwin, how do you account for uniquely human behavior?

DARWIN.  It is my firm belief that an undertaking of such a nature has never been, and never will be, an endeavor of my studies.

APPARITION.  Ah, the convention is a failure.  None of you has found the answer alone, and together you only demonstrate each other’s flaws.  I’m afraid it’s time for you all to leave.

ALL: Wait, what is the answer?

APPARITION.  I could tell you, but that wouldn’t be any fun at all.  We’d never again have brilliant minds like yours, not to mention those of Skinner, Freud, Jung (well .  .  .  Jung), and de Beauvoir, engaged in fervent analysis.  Besides, what would future Rhetoric 1A students write about?

EPILOGUE

Enter CHORUS.

 Since each, in thought, is limited in scope

 And gaps reduce the power of each view,

 We must continue thinking, while we hope

 To someday find a theory which holds true.

 Until then we console ourselves with this:

 That all our careful thought is virtuous,

 That all mistakes or thoughts that run amiss

 Are certainly quite far from meaningless.

 Perhaps it’s almost better we don’t know

 What makes us move, what actions we’re allowed,

 Or why we’re here, or where we else should go,

 Or just to what brave thoughts to be avowed.

       For in the lack of knowledge, we’re all sure

       That in our heads, intelligence will stir.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Darwin, Charles.  The Origin of Species.  New York: Viking Penguin Inc., 1985. 

Dawkins, Richard.  The Selfish Gene.  Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976.

Machiavelli, Niccolo.  “The Qualities of the Prince.” A World of Ideas.  Ed.  Lee A.  Jacobus.  Boston: Bedford Books of St.  Martin’s Press, 1990.

Rousseau, Jean Jacques.  “The Origin of Civil Society.” A World of Ideas.  Ed.  Lee A.  Jacobus.  Boston: Bedford Books of St.  Martin’s Press, 1990.

From the Archives - Risqué College Paper

NOTE: This post is rated R for mature themes.

Introduction

A long-lost friend got back in touch with me recently through this blog. We exchanged several e-mails and in one of them he reminded me about a college English paper I’d sent him a copy of, comparing the 1681 Andrew Marvell poem “To His Coy Mistress” to the 1987 George Michael song “I Want Your Sex.” I was impressed that my friend remembered this essay, and thus now offer it to you as an amusement.

By the way, as a young college student I was hesitant to turn in a paper on such a racy topic, so I submitted a more standard essay along with it. To my surprise, the professor liked this one better, and even had me submit it to a student writing contest. (I lost.)

Sex: Now and Then — February 14, 1989

One of the joys of poetry is its timelessness; a poem written as far back as the 17th century may well retain its value even in the 1980s. However, we need not read such archaic literary works to become enlightened; indeed, modern works can serve the same purpose, and with entertainment value to boot. Or can they? To analyze the relative impact of modern poetry, I have compared two poems: Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress,” written in 1681, and George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex,” written in 1987. Both poems attempt to persuade a reluctant woman to express her love physically to the speaker; I will attempt to determine which poem presents the stronger argument.

In the first stanza of “To His Coy Mistress,” Marvell illustrates to his companion that had he enough time, he would appreciate her properly by spending thousands of years merely looking at her: “An hundred years should go to praise/ Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze ... An age at least to every part,/ And the last age should show your heart.” He continues by flattering the woman, saying, “For, lady, you deserve this state,/ Nor would I love at lower rate.”

Michael also addresses the aspect of time in the beginning of his poem, though he takes an unexaggerated, more realistic view of the limitation time presents: “I’ve waited so long baby/ Now that we’re friends/ Every man’s got his patience/ And here’s where mine ends.” In contrast to Marvell’s feelings, Michael recognizes that there are better things to do than simply to look at a girl, and appeals to her sense of expediency. While his approach is somewhat less flattering and could be construed as threatening, a woman could definitely appreciate his honesty.

In his second stanza, Marvell gently reminds his lady that “time’s winged chariot [is] hurrying near,” meaning that the restriction of time is impending, and that if they wait too long to enjoy each other’s physical attributes they could lose their chance as old age and eventually death overtake them. He appeals to the woman’s sense of humor, reminding her that “the grave’s a fine and private place,/ But none, I think, do there embrace.”

While Marvell takes an indirect route in persuading his lady through subtle reminders, Michael presents a very aggressive, direct appeal: “I want your sex/ I want your love/ I want your ... sex.” Instead of using hyperbole and subtle humor to achieve emphasis, as does Marvell, Michael chooses simple repetition. Keeping in mind the presumed woman to whom he presents his argument, this less complex technique could have greater impact.

In his last stanza, Marvell confides to his mate that he sees in her a passion that longs to burst forth: “ ... Thy willing soul transpires/ At every pore with instant fires....” He proposes that they unleash this passion in order to make best use of their limited time, telling his companion, “Thus, though we cannot make our sun/ Stand still, yet we will make him run.”

Michael, meanwhile, continues his direct approach by offering a multitude of reasons why physical enjoyment of his mate could be beneficial for her. First, he points out the basic biological urge for sex, venturing that to abstain from it is contrary to every human’s true instincts: “Sex is natural—sex is good/ Not everybody does it/ But everybody should.” Further, he states, it is “fun.” What lively young girl could pass it up, then, in light of these facts?

Then, just in case his woman still has inhibitions, he assures her that it wouldn’t be incestuous, stating, “I’m not your father/ I’m not your brother.” And in case she wants sexual credentials, he cites an example of a woman, specifically his mate’s sister, who has enjoyed him in the past: “Talk to your sister/ I am a lover.” At this point, I think it is safe to assume that Michael has given her every possible reason to satisfy him, without confusing her with complex notions of time—or anything else. Then, he appeals to her sense of humanity, admitting that her refusal of sex is hurting him: “Don’t you know I love you till it hurts me baby.” This demonstrates his respect for her gentle nature. And in case she has forgotten what the topic of conversation was (being human, after all), Michael sums up his argument neatly by restating his thesis: “Have sex with me/ C‑c‑c‑c‑come on.”

Granted, the two poets seem to be targeting a different sort of woman. Marvell attempts to relate to his lady with his claims that he, too, appreciates a slower, more complete appreciation of a mate, and also gives her credit for sensible thinking, as is demonstrated by his logical organization of stanzas. Furthermore, he appeals to her sense of humor though use of exaggeration and ludicrous images. Michael, on the other hand, takes a more subjective, less organized form of argument, which appeals less to intellect and more to the profound axiom that “girls just wanna have fun.” While both poets do have strong arguments, we must conclude that since Marvell’s target is sort of an egg‑head anyway and his indirect approach lacks aggression and machismo, that Michael does present the stronger argument and henceforth the more effective poem.

Besides, it’s got a good beat, and it’s easy to dance to.

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